


consisted of the strange

by truecontradictions (dialetheism)



Series: NOTfic [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU - Welcome to Night Vale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Creepy Fluff, Magical Realism, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 20:04:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1791508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dialetheism/pseuds/truecontradictions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>look, up in the sky: it's a bird, it's a plane! it's a cloud, it's a moon! also, some stars! there are so many things in the sky, wow…</i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <b>what’s the craic, Night Vale?</b>
  </i>
</p><p>-- Niall is the host of a radio show in the small desert community of Night Vale, where he and his friends are pretty average folks, all things considered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	consisted of the strange

**Author's Note:**

> listen. i realize that this may look like fic and sound like fic and even sometimes read like fic, but i assure you -- this is NOT fic. at most, i will admit that it is vaguely fic-ish. but again, NOT fic. really.
> 
> with that out of the way, here's what else i can tell you: this was once the humble beginnings of what would have been a truly massive Welcome To Night Vale au. unfortunately, all that i ever got around to writing were these few world building, headcanon bits. so it might not all make too much sense, slapped together in as aesthetically pleasing an order as i could manage, and bulked up with a somewhat shoddy NVCR broadcast transcript in between - most of which i shamelessly borrowed from the official WTNV [twitter](https://twitter.com/NightValeRadio), so thanks to them for that - but at least it's better than the last time i tried posting it? this re-edited and re-upped version is no less actual fic, with the same clunky dialogue and blocking, aha. BUT ALSO! it's at least a bit, kinda, maybe, vaguely cleaner and now with a whole 2k more words to squint your eyes at, so!!
> 
>  **ETA:** i forgot to mention, but also. this is quite old. started about this time last year and not updated since, besides the occasional grammar/spelling edit. so if things aren't in accordance with current Welcome to Night Vale canon, that's why. i tried to set it in some sort of vague future anyway, so, you know. feel free to look over any glaring inconsistencies. thnx.
> 
> not beta'd and not true (and also not rated, but pls do keep in mind warnings for WTNV-style prose, including ~strange~ settings and ~odd~ characters and ~gruesome~ imagery, as well as a possible sense of general unease and discomfort -- Creepy Fluff was an actual tag that ao3 already had prerecorded, and it was actually super fitting, so like, just go with it); all mistakes are my own, and anything read here should be taken with a grain of salt. title from the song _Crying Lightning_ by the Arctic Monkeys.

\---

 

_look, up in the sky: it's a bird, it's a plane! it's a cloud, it's a moon! also, some stars! there are so many things in the sky, wow…_

_**what’s the craic, Night Vale?** _

 

\---

 

three months after Niall returns home to Night Vale from being away at university for the past four years, he receives a visitor.

he’s been living in the tiny apartment above his brother’s garage ever since he got back into town and all told, it’s generally a pretty convenient set-up. but it also means that Niall doesn’t have too many places to hide when his brother comes calling with the same tired attempt to convince him to partake in the family business, of which Niall doesn’t know much and doesn’t particularly want to, thanks.

so while Niall’s been mostly successful in thinking up new ways to gently turn down the offer thus far, he’s just about begun to run out of new excuses and nearly ready to admit defeat -- which is when Liam turns up on his doorstep.

-

a swift three-count knock on wood wakes Niall up with a start, shocks him out of sleep so suddenly that he goes tumbling off the edge of his couch. lifting himself from the floor with an indulgent stretch and making his way to the front door, Niall realizes that it’d started raining during his afternoon nap, probably what had kept him down for so long.

the apartment feels damp, air humid and smelling of organically fertilized topsoil. it makes Niall’s nose wiggle and ears twitch, makes a smile curl his lips as he walks through his home.

once he actually gets the door open, jimmies the handle just so until it releases hold of the lock with a clatter, Niall finally gets a look at his visitor. the person stood patiently on his WELCOME! mat is wearing a large black coat with the hood still pulled over their head, obscuring their face in darkness. Niall makes a mental note to go down to Ralph’s sometime in the week and get a new bulb for his porch light.

for a moment they stand there in silence, Niall on one side of the open door frame and the hooded figure on the other. in those few seconds, Niall is suddenly reminded of that old urban legend, the one about the dog park that supposedly used to reside in the vacant lot on the corner of Earl and Summerset. 

he’s been hearing the tales for years, naturally, they all have; the types of scary stories told around monthly ritual campfires, or whispered about by older kids on the playground while their parents were distracted looking out for ominously painted helicopters in the sky, the go-to Double Dragon Dares that would find some poor soul creeping up to the tall fence and peering through the gaps in the aged wood. those kids never did come back altogether the same, something a bit off about their chakras, a dimness behind their eyes.

of course, they were all at an age by then that everyone just figured it was growing pains. part and parcel of going through puberty, symptoms all of their older siblings had gone through - along with the usual, you know, the growth of their poisonous incisors and the sporadic outbursts of temporary fire-breathing.

hormones, that’s all it was. 

and so it is that Niall’s thinking about sneaky hormones and the dogpark of legend with its mysterious hooded figures, when the one on his doorstep coughs.

“sorry,” they croak. pale hands come up to pull down their hood and reveal a rather pleasant face, soft rounded edges and a hesitant smile. “i developed a rather unfortunate head-cold earlier this week and the Crushed Beetle Powder capsules i’ve been taking haven’t shown any signs of having taken effect, so.”

they let out another pitiful wheeze and Niall frowns.

“oh no, is it that virus that’s going around the lower town? a friend of mine just got over the worst of it himself, gave me his leftover throat lozenges in case i was next to fall victim.” Niall gestures back into the cavernous dark of his apartment. “i could go look for them, if you don’t mind coming in for a mo’.”

his guest grins properly and it brightens their face considerably, something warm melting behind their brown eyes and settling into their kind features. Niall ushers them through the door and into the living room, waves them to the only good armchair he owns -- the one in the corner only remains out of misplaced respect, as it tends toward trying to swallow whole whatever fool attempts to get comfortable in its unnecessarily squishy cushions -- and then proceeds into his kitchenette. while Niall putters around, opening and shutting cabinets and drawers, his guest speaks up once more:

“you wouldn’t happen to have that lovely citrus kind, would you?” they’ve taken off their hooded coat now, draped it over an armrest. they’re looking up at Niall so hopefully, Niall is struck by the want to bake them a plate of cookies. Niall doesn’t actually know how to bake much of anything at all, but he thinks he could learn for this person. “only, one of the girls at work offered me some of her own the other day, but she only had cherry. i _despise_ cherry. have done ever since i was a child and my mother went through a years-long phase where she insisted that a diet of artificial cherry flavoring and periodic blood baths were the only remedies that would help her survive through the horrors of menopause unscathed. which reminds me why i’m here, actually.”

they accept the packet that Niall hands them with a heart-felt _thank you so much_ and a smile down at the label proclaiming the lozenges’ _FRESH CITRUS FLAVOR (NOW INFUSED WITH REAL CALIFORNIA LEMON, FLORIDA TANGERINE, AND ARIZONA MOUNTAIN ASH)!_

quickly popping a lozenge between plush lips, they’re still having to suck around their words when they eventually tell Niall, “i’ve come to speak with you about an exciting job opportunity.”

Niall furrows his brow for a moment and can feel himself bristle slightly as he vaguely recalls something his brother had been complaining about just the other day.

“please tell me you don’t work for that _alternative medicine_ ob/gyn that’s started operating out of the partially abandoned offices behind Big Rico’s - you know, the ones that are only visible to the human eye on alternating weekdays?” Niall’s guest had begun shaking their head, but pauses to nod thoughtfully. Niall continues. “because if you are, i really shouldn’t even be talking to you right now.”

they’ve begun shaking their head once more, a low growl of an insistent whine caught in their throat, but Niall doesn’t want to hear it.

“no no no, nope. sorry pal, but Rico is a very old and very good friend of my family’s, right, and ever since that damn practice opened their cold iron doors, Big Rico’s has lost a good portion of their regular clientele. all the women who used to drown their feminine sorrows in giant slices of Neapolitan, are now off getting proper medical care in the form of bloody beetroot cleanses and prescribed gregorian chanting, and it’s just. not good for business, not good for Rico, and very not good for me and the rest of our fam.” Niall stands. “you, pal, are the enemy, and i am going to have to respectfully ask you to leave my home immediately before i’m forced to perform a bit of dicey emergency tubal ligation on you right here over my Memaw’s heirloom rug.”

Niall’s guest is also standing at this point, though they spare a moment to glance down at the cherub imagery adorning the rug underneath their tightly-laced tennis shoes. Niall thinks things may be about the get ugly and he uses the pause to start wracking his mind for any other relevant obstetrics and gynaecology puns he could use should things come to verbal blows -- but then his guest says, “i’m not a doctor.”

“what?” Niall asks, confused.

“i now realize i must have puzzled you some with all that talk about my mother and her baths, which probably overcomplicated things. that was my mistake. i tend to babble when i’m nervous, unfortunately. but i can assure you that i am most certainly not a doctor, nor have i ever even had any particular interest in medicine. i’m in radio, actually.”

“wait, _what?”_ Niall asks one more time, very confused.

“sorry.. again. i, um, was maybe a bit anxious about coming here to meet you today and then you were so kind, welcoming me into your home and offering me your lozenges, and they were _citrus_ and -- can i start over?” Niall nods, at a loss. “my name is Liam Payne. i’m an intern for Night Vale Community Radio and i volunteered to be the one to tell you:

“Niall Horan, you’ve been chosen to replace - recently deceased and fairly missed - Nick Grimshaw as the new voice of our dear Night Vale.

“congratulations.”

 

\---

 

_since i’ve been talking about it all month, i know you’re all well aware by now -- but indulge me this last time, yeah? thank you, thank you._

_that said, the end of this week marks my second anniversary as host of Night Vale Community Radio! an opportunity, as i’m sure to have mentioned more than once or twice, that i was honored to accept._

_and if you’re a frequent listener of our little show, then you also know that i’ve proclaimed this month Radio Appreciation Month and have decided to celebrate by looking to the past - however inadvisable - and highlighting a special voice every week. as we’re in the home stretch, i’ve decided to end things with my personal favorite NVCR host of all time: Cecil Baldwin, who spent an unknowable amount of time behind this very mic before he had to step down from this very position for unknowable reasons. may he rest in as few pieces as possible._

_but before i say too much about things that i shouldn’t even know, how about i share with you a bit of wisdom from the man himself; in the opening to one of my particular favorite shows, Cecil intuitively noted: **rabbits are not what they seem to be**. _

_and i have to say that i concur, listeners. i have to, because Amendment 81 ¾ of the Revised Guidelines To Dealing With Wild Rodents warns us to do so, under pain of death._

_not only that, but they’re pointless, as well. do absolutely nothing. also! i’ve just never been overly fond of the way their beady little eyes burn red when they feed. they’re shifty creatures, rabbits, don’t trust them not for a second._

_but what about you, listeners? any interesting pet hates? tweet us at the studio and let us know!_

 

\---

 

the host before Niall, Nick Grimshaw, died in the middle of an in-studio interview. he was the first host of NVCR to ever attempt in-studio interviews and also the last, as station management banned the practice after Grimshaw upset his guest so offensively that he got his face bitten off and his brain matter sucked out through the gaping hole where his nose had once been. nasty business, getting brain juice out of carpet. so yeah, no more in-studio interviews.

and no one talks about what happened to Cecil Baldwin. as far as Niall figures, no one remembers. to do so would be illegal anyway, the Secret Police tell him; there is a list with exactly thirty-two words listed in order of severity, names and dates and hieroglyphics, key events and mythologized philosophies and Bing search results that are not to be remembered. to remember any of these is an offense punishable by being hung, drawn, and thirded -- which is annoying if only because nobody likes an odd number. 

but no one remembers, so that’s alright. poor Cecil, either way.

Niall himself never had a very large interest in radio growing up, though he does remember the few years where NVCR went through hosts quicker than he ever bothered washing his teeth.

he has fuzzy memories of listening to Greg and Scott and Gemma and Fern, and even a bit of his predecessor, nicknamed Grimmy, right before he’d left for school. but never once had Niall heard anything in their broadcasts that made him feel connected to them in any way, that hinted at a day when he would follow in their footsteps. mostly he tuned in to keep up with the weather.

really, Niall just wishes someone would have warned him that his future lay with radio - perhaps he could have taken some broadcast classes at university, better prepare him and that. or maybe changed his major altogether, given that he can’t even recall what he’d ended up studying. or what school he went to. or much of anything at all from those four years, actually. what a waste.

 

\---

 

_you’re all probably sick of how often i bring up my group of close friends, for which i’m not at all sorry, if i’m honest. but i did promise to cut down on the name-dropping, and i will!_

_right after i mention my very best friend in this and any possible tangent universe, Mr Harry Styles._

_sweet Harold has just texted me from the parking lot of **Twist Family Antiquities: Procurers of Haunted and Possessed Artifacts** , where he’s recently come back from taking his lunch break, and he’s wondering if i could use my vast listenership to reach out to someone._

_and since i can’t deny my friends anything, i’d like to ask, on behalf of Harry Styles and the rest of the fam at **Twist Family Antiquities** \-- would the owner of a silver Chevy Aveo please continue living your life with the conviction that there is great purpose?_

_you are beautiful._

 

\---

 

Niall and Harry have been friends since preschool; on the day they met, little four year old Harry had just started wandering into the dangerous dark space beneath the big curly slide in the shadowed corner of the playground, when suddenly little four year old Niall quickly reached over and pulled him back into the relative safety of the midday sun.

they’d ended up tumbling over their own feet as well as each other, and it was sat together in a heap, both of them covered in sand, that Niall had asked Harry just what he thought he’d been doing --

“what were you thinking, going under the big curly slide? _nobody_ goes under the big curly slide.”

“says who?”

“says everyone, don’t you know anything? you’re gonna get yourself eatted.”

\-- to which Harry had responded by claiming to have heard voices coming from the neverending void beneath the twisting plastic tube. this was odd because, “voices? like, talking voices? you sure it weren’t just a sad whimpering you heard? no one’s ever said anything about _talking voices_ , i don’t think.”

after nap time later that first day, Harry had sat down next to Niall at the coloring station and told him, “i figured it out, by the way.” and when Niall only raised his little eyebrows, he sighs happily and tells him, “the voices weren’t coming from under the big curly slide at all.. they were coming from my _hair_.”

Niall remembers looking up at the great curly nest sitting atop Harry’s head and thinking it didn’t look too ominous. messy, yeah. but innocent enough.

he doesn’t hear the voices for himself until a few years later, during a sleepover when they’re both eight. they’re sharing Harry’s bed, cuddled in close together, and Harry has been asleep for a good half-hour while Niall stares up at the sparkling popcorn ceiling. but then, even as Harry continues snoring softly beside him, someone whispers out into the quiet of the room:

“knock, knock.” 

and Niall is only eight years old, hasn’t yet learned not to respond to every disembodied voice that chooses to make itself known, so he doesn’t even hesitate before asking, “who’s there?”

the voice’s joke has an unforgivably terrible punchline and in the morning, Niall catches Harry’s eyes in their reflections above the sink as they brush their teeth - well, Harry’s reflection. Niall’s never had one, after all.

“yer ‘air voi’es er stuh’pid, ‘arry,” he informs his friend, mouth filled with foamy toothpaste. he spits the wad in the sink, “you should teach them better jokes.”

of course, it’s now fifteen years later and Harry’s voices are still using the same tired stand up routine as ever. and Harry, of course, still loves it.

so much so, that whenever Harry pauses to giggle to himself, it’s become instinct for everyone else to just ignore him; it’s always best to just pretend not to hear the dulcet murmuring coming from his tangle of curls. best to just not acknowledge them, when to do so is to invite yourself to more of their terrible jokes, their nonsense riddles and cringe-worthy puns.

and no one wants that, so.

-

when Harry smiles, his lips curl up impossibly high at the ends and it sometimes seems as if he has rows upon rows of teeth. Niall has always been impressed by them, white and straight and slightly overlarge as they were, but Harry himself has had a complex since middle school, when all of his adult teeth had finally finished growing in behind schedule. he would slap his wide hands over his wide mouth when he laughed and began making a habit of coming at things tongue-first, all in a pretty futile effort to hide them away.

but instead of his peculiar dentura making him bitter about teeth altogether, Harry became rather obsessed with what everyone _else_ had sprouting from their slick gums.

in fact, Harry had been Niall’s first kiss -- and then his second and third, as well. not long after that, Niall decided that he could probably do without any kissing of any kind for a good long while. around the same time, Harry had begun his mission to kiss as many people as possible; by the end of the year, he’d systematically made his way through their entire high school class, kissing anyone who was up for it.

(mostly everyone had been, and continued to be, up for it - even years down the line. there aren’t too many people left in Night Vale these days who Harry hasn’t had a taste of, for better or worse.)

and that’s pretty much the way things were for a few years: Niall politely turning his face away from the sexual advances of any and all potential suitors, while his best friend bounced around town covered in bite marks and sporting the smuggest grin.

until one day, when things changed. until the day that Harry showed up at Niall’s house and didn’t have stories about anyone besides one particular someone. _Louis_. until eventually, the red indents and bright bruises behind Harry’s ears and along his collarbones only came courtesy of the same particular someone. _Louis_.

and Harry was still pretty smug, proud as he was of his marks. wore each of them like they were glittering jewels and mourned every single one after they faded away.

that aside, Louis really is just as great as Harry’s frequent soliloquies on the subject would lead you to believe. Niall had always thought so, anyway - back when they were all at school and Louis was a few years ahead of them, quick and funny and smart in a way that couldn’t be learned from books - and he can even understand what Harry means about the whole teeth thing, in this case: because where Harry has teeth perfectly square and white and and seemingly endless, Louis’ teeth are small and sharp and a bit dangerous. just like the rest of him.

he’s beautiful, honestly, Harry’s Louis.

with skin that stayed perfectly smooth and golden even during that year when the sun went into hibernation, and eyes that are always a different shade of blue, sometimes so dark that they seem deep as the Mariana Trench -- Harry’d once told them that if he stares into Louis’ eyes for long enough, he can just about hear the screams of everyone who has ever drowned in the deep, and at the time, Niall remembers thinking that that would be a bit of a burden during intimate moments. 

Harry thinks they’re magnificent.

then again, Harry thinks all of Louis is magnificent. can’t find any fault with him, won’t speak a negative word against him.

not a word, not even to complain about how every third tuesday of every month ever since he came of age, Louis shrinks down to about the size of Harry's thumb. and Harry has pretty long thumbs, comparatively to most thumbs. but even so, even though _all_ of his fingers are actually pretty long, comparatively to most fingers on most humanoid-identified lifeforms, you’d think Harry would have plenty reason to grumble every now and then. or at least every third tuesday of every month.

(but no, because they’ve worked a way around it. and you can always tell when. despite their claim of trying not to have _too much_ sex on every third tuesday of every month for Louis' reluctant safety, _you can always tell_.)

Niall’s personal favorite thing about Louis - besides his feathery hair and melodic giggle - might have to be his shadow, without fail. unlike Harry’s curls and their arsenal of dad jokes, Louis’ shadow is actually a lot of fun.

it’s unusually mobile, as far as human shadows go. and not only that, but much like the man himself, Louis’ shadow usually can’t keep still for too long at a time - dancing across sidewalks, slithering along floors, creeping up walls.

Louis tells him that it wasn’t until he properly met Harry a few years ago that his shadow finally found a reason to settle a bit; not only has it found an anchor to help tamp down its usual incessant restlessness, but it sometimes tends to just, like, _hang around_ wherever Harry happens to be.. even if Louis isn’t there with him. likes to drape itself all over Harry’s own shadow, mostly, wrap around its arms or legs or neck.

and it was his shadow that ended up convincing Louis to get the tattoo, something in the same style of and thought behind the curling script across his collarbones, reminding him that _IT IS WHAT IT ISN’T_. Louis needed a reminder, for all the times when his shadow was off following Harry about town, Louis needed something to point him back home.

so he goes and gets himself a beautiful compass, inked stark and solid in the center of his forearm where it’d always be only a quick glance away.

they help Niall believe in true love, his friends Harry and Louis, with their monthly arrangements for deviant sexual practices and their bodies that were made to fit with one another like jagged puzzle pieces.

and even if it weren’t for any of the other stuff - the teeth and the shadows and the unconditional loyalty - Niall would have become a believer the day that Louis peeled back the plastic wrap from around his arm and noticed that the arrow on his compass had changed its position to point directly at Harry. or more precisely, to point in the same direction the ship tattooed onto Harry’s bicep was always sailing.

so it’s a good thing that Louis’ compass keeps spinning, chasing its equilibrium in relation to Harry’s ship. it’s a good thing, so that Niall can keep believing.

-

for a time, the only thing Harry ever found cause to silently pout about was Louis’ refusal to move in with him. not a matter of commitment nor comfort on Louis’ part, so much as it was the principle of the thing; _pride_ was what kept him from giving in, kept him living in a small efficiency at the rear of a single-family home in the recently renovated Marshall’s Gorge.

and it might have made a nice arrangement, actually, and Louis might still be living there to this day, even, if not for the fact that the place was something of a death trap.

you see, the unfortunate truth was that despite all of their hard work and the absolutely lovely job they did with the refurbishment of the Structural Damage, not one of the various overqualified teams of highly trained renovators brought in on the development project were ever able to make even a dent in undoing much of the Spiritual Damage inflicted upon the land on that fateful Valentine’s Day all those years ago. it’s because of this that most of the homes are still unlivable even now, but for those inhabited by the brave few who ultimately decided that the incredibly cheap rent was worth the risk to their own physical and spiritual safety.

Louis was one of the previously mentioned few, and he often found himself thinking that his little corner was the most frightful in the entire development -- which was untrue, of course, as everyone knew for a fact that Claire and Marshall Cohen-Saunders on the south eastern end had it the very worst. like, the _wooorst_.

still. Louis’ apartment was pretty bad, and more than a bit annoying to live in;

for one thing, there was the recurring plumbing issue, in which both the sink and shower head in his bathroom rarely sprouted water, so much as they slowly bubbled over with a murky brown tar that stuck to the tiles of his shower like grime and would immediately fill the apartment with the smell of boiled cabbage. not to mention the linen closet behind the open bathroom door that wasn’t a linen closet at all, but a portal to worlds unknown.

(he might have been curious about that one at first, maybe, had it not been for the family of vampire bats who lived in the cabinets above his refrigerator, who strongly suggested against further investigation. and Louis was rather inclined to trust their judgement, so he started storing his linens in his bedroom closet instead.)

perhaps the actual worst bit of all, was the matter of the living room walls and how they’d been painted a sickly puce that stubbornly refused to be painted over, absorbing any other color that Louis attempted to use on it.

but in the end, all in all, Louis didn’t mind too much. and he would have been fine to continue living there for as long as his home deemed to allow him vacancy. but then he finally invited Harry over.

everything had seemed to be going fine, at the start, seemed as if the apartment might have actually _liked_ him, in its way. the lights hummed a bit brighter and the a/c blasted a bit cooler and the bat family left their lodgings in the cabinet above the refrigerator, came down and snuggled into Harry’s hair while he and Louis sat watching a movie on the couch, their hushed conversations with Harry’s curly voices barely a whisper above the volume of the television.

Louis probably should have known, though, should have been able to see all of these seemingly unrelated occurrences as the bad omens he now knew them to be:

that night, Harry nearly got sucked through what had appeared to be a trans-dimensional sinkhole that opened up underneath his feet on the way to the bathroom. the next morning, when Harry asked Louis to move in with him during a quiet breakfast eaten around the hallway sinkhole, both of them staring over the edge into its swirling heart, Louis didn’t fight it.

 

\---

 

_listeners, i am thrilled and also vaguely chilled to report that we have just now received confirmation on a story that has had the entire studio buzzing all day._

_so you all know that massive oak tree near the Ralph’s, right? with the trunk as thick as your average smart car and the branches that shade over two city blocks? yeah well, it’s begun to speak!_

_this recent development is exciting for a good number of reasons, though possibly most impressively because this particular oak tree hasn’t spoken since the spring of **1903**. and that is just, wow, incredible._

_of course - now, just as then - no one can understand a word it’s saying. which is a bit of a bummer, i’m sure you’ll agree._

_but hey, if we do end up rustling up a half-decent translator to take out there, can someone make sure to ask our newly sentient Night Vale neighbor just how it is that an oak such as itself has managed to survive out here in the desert all these years? i’ve always wondered._

_in the meantime, here are few a words from the Night Vale Tourism Board:_

_/ fear, loathing, Las Vegas. dread, contempt, Phoenix. suspicion, enmity, Albuquerque. /_

_if it’s vague terror, utter revulsion, and a dry desert climate that you’re looking for, then you’re in luck! Night Vale has all of those things and more, no need to travel elsewhere.. ever._

_**do not ever leave Night Vale.** _

_ thismessageclearedandapprovedforbroadcastbythesherrif’ssecretpolice. thank you. _

 

\---

 

when it came time to prepare for R.A.M, Niall had been forced to do most of his back-listening of old radio broadcasts on his off-time after finding that none of the tapes - nor in fact, any listening or playback devices of any kind - were actually kept at the studio.

he was instead made to go down to the public library, found himself there almost everyday after work. Liam’d been gracious enough to volunteer his services as look-out, which had been handy, as he’s the only current(ly living and breathing) intern at the station who has any real confidence wielding the _Secret Police Sanctioned_ Librarian Repellent Flamethrower. 

(secretly, Niall just likes to _watch_ sometimes; the way that Liam’s muscles flex when he hefts the flamethrower up parallel to his chest, likes how fluidly Liam’s bones shift beneath his skin, move around and allow room for their adjusted growth in size relevant to the weight he’s lifting.

Niall not-so-secretly-or-subtly-at-all-actually enjoys watching overt physical displays from _all_ of his heterogametic friends, if he’s being honest -- like whenever Harry finds himself so suddenly overcome with excess amounts of love in his heart that he becomes somewhat violently possessed by the need to wrap Louis up in his arms as immediately as possible, tightly presses their chests together and swings Louis around so that his legs go flying, and the effort triggers a graceful ripple of movement down Harry’s back underneath his thin t-shirt. or those beautiful days during the summer solstice where Louis succeeds in getting together enough people for a hearty round of non-bloodsport to attempt quenching his thirst, finding decent replacements for his old high school teammates that are either deceased or still missing, and Niall has to contain an embarrassing groan at the sight of Louis’ thighs bulging with sinuous muscle expansion as he runs down a muddy field.

better still are the times that Niall has observed the change up close and personal, those intimate moments between he and Zayn -- when they’re _doing the do_ , you know, fucking too fast and too furious, when Zayn holds him up against a wall or door or other similarly flat and vertical surface, the dance of muscles swelling around shifting bones beneath veins that run cool in Zayn’s forearms, tickling against the underside of Niall’s spread thighs where his flushed skin feels warmest. those are the best times.

Niall’s own body doesn’t do the whole necessitated adaption thing, forever wiry, muscles lean and bones hollow. and it’s mostly fine, as he’s always been told that his impressive wingspan more than makes up for anything he may be lacking elsewhere.)

but yeah, the broadcasts: Niall’s been doing a lot of back-listening in preparation for what he’s started calling R.A.M, or _Radio Appreciation Month._

he’d had to go on record and remind his audience that while he did get the celebration approved by the mayor themself, it should be stressed that Radio Appreciation Month was just that, a _celebration_ , not a council-mandated city holiday; anyone wishing not to celebrate was more than welcome to refrain without fear of being abducted from their homes in the middle of the night. either way, it was sure to be a fun time.

Niall’s decided to highlight a different former NVCR host every week until the second anniversary of his own induction onto the Night Vale Community Radio team - as well as the anniversary of Nick Grimshaw’s unfortunate, but inevitable, death by in-studio guest.

of the last four hosts Niall’s chosen to honor, his favorite is most definitely Cecil Baldwin. not only in response to how little is really known about the circumstances involved in his passing on (of the mic and of his life), but also because Niall just can’t help finding himself completely enraptured and unusually comforted while listening to his shows.

listening to vintage accounts of how little has actually changed for their humble desert community, Niall feels safe and sound even as he drowns in deep waters, the smooth cadence of Cecil’s voice flooding the old archive room at the back of the public library. he spares only a passing thought for the high-pitched screeching coming from beyond the padlocked cast-iron doors, too caught up in the swell of narration, too closely following the waxing thread of Cecil’s odd relationship with the odd scientist Carlos to worry about what manner of chaos might be ensuing just outside.

it’s probably fine, anyway. Liam has it under control.

 

\---

 

_our distinguished mayor, Hiram McDaniel’s Thrice-Severed Left-Posterior Head, released a statement this morning on behalf of the Night Vale Lifeblood and Soulbond Centers requesting that anyone looking to rid themselves of a few pints of blood only do so in conjunction with organizations that are asking for donations, as this has been problematic for many unprepared charities._

_relatedly, our sponsors would like to remind us all that laughter is the best medicine. the second best is whole chicken feet, raw. the third best, Tylenol._

_Tylenol: the pain reliever hospitals use most.. seventy-five percent of the time.. after all other options have been ruled out. Tylenol: alright in a pinch, we guess._

 

\---

 

Liam is, perhaps, the most dangerous of them all. mostly in that way he has where he seems to be perfectly ordinary at first glance, the perfect specimen of Totally Human and Really Rather Regular and Nothing To See Here.

but Niall has always known, has always felt that there was _something_ about him, something extra, something special; even back when he had thought Liam a loathed gynecologist, Niall’d been drawn to him, compelled to do nice things for him and calmed by his presence. and yeah, Niall felt the same about most of the people that he met on a day-to-day basis. but Liam was _different_.

on top of everything else, Niall’s favorite thing about Liam may have to be his uncanny ability to know what’s going on behind his back, how he can tell you the exact layout of a room or how many fingers you’re holding up, even when he’s facing away from the action.

Niall’s never asked, but he’s wanted to. has always wondered whether Liam just had an extra sense to round out the traditional nine, or if his gift is something more physical. 

he knows that it isn’t an extra set of eyes hidden in the short hair at the back of his head, knows for certain because he’d checked once: he’d been lucky enough to get his hands on Liam’s skull last winter when those pesky soul-sucking desert mites had once again gone after the poor brown-eyed citizens of Night Vale, clinging to their head and facial hair and leeching into their centers through the darkness of their irises. the infestation lasted over a month that year, and Niall had been able to pass off his inspection of Liam’s cranium as a necessary precaution, a routine mite cleanse by one friend to another. 

though it was a shame that it hadn’t been eyes, in the end, as that would have been pretty cool. Niall’s nana used to have a pair of her own, and while they did catch him in a fair amount of naughty behavior in their time, she always found a way to put them to especially good use - like all the times she cheated to find him out during games of hide-and-shriek.

whatever the case may be, Niall figures that it’s this extra sense that’s kept Liam alive for so long. he has a tendency (and fondness) for getting himself into some alarmingly life-threatening situations, always has his poor mother waiting up for him with the porch light on while he goes off at all hours of night, chasing down the next story. 

“it’s not like i didn’t know, going into this job.. i just have to be extra careful, you know?” he’d said, the first time Niall had asked concerning his hazardous proclivities. “always been a dangerous business, radio. everyone knows that.” then his mouth had slowly curled with a smile, this small little thing that was both humble and proud. “and gosh, but do i love every second of it.”

 

\---

 

_the Community Calendar for the rest of this week has been altered, as of three minutes ago. i would attempt to question the need for such a change, but my good friend and NVCR’s most trusted intern, Liam Payne, is shaking his head at me from behind the bulletproof window on the other side of the studio._

_instead, i’ll stick to what i do best -- reporting the news._

_and so, delivered to me by Intern Liam shortly after it was discovered by Intern Liam written on the side of his Starbucks order in red sharpie, here is what we can all look forward to this week:_

_today, as you should already be experiencing, is a **new day**. tomorrow, however, is now to be considered a **used and refurbished** day. then two more new days, followed by an **antique** day that we must treat very gently._

_that was the Community Calendar. and now, the weather._

 

\---

 

a few weeks into his brand new position as The Voice of Night Vale, Niall meets the best friend that his favorite intern, Liam, is always talking about.

from the bits and pieces that he’s gathered so far, all Niall knows for sure is that this friend of Liam’s lives in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town near the Whispering Forest. according to Liam, his friend risks the proximity because he claims that the swaying branches often like to draw him under their canopy by complimenting his eyelashes and cheekbones, and then give him very helpful ideas for his art pieces. also, Liam’s friend is an artist.

on the day Niall finally gets to put a face to the anecdotes, Zayn comes to pick up Liam from the studio after work is done for the night; Liam’s car had ejected him halfway to Ralph’s the other night and then drove off into the desert without him, so he’s been hitching rides all week. apparently, this happens quite a lot. 

“she’ll be back in a few days,” Liam had told him, smiling wistfully. “a free spirit, my Dani.”

currently, Liam is discussing some last-minute details with Intern Jade concerning the luncheon that is to follow Intern George’s memorial the following weekend. Zayn waits for him leaned back against the doorframe into the studio, and when Niall goes over to introduce himself, Zayn shakes his hand with a slinky smile stretching pretty pink lips. it makes a current of _something_ run up Niall’s arm and across his shoulders, down his back to curl his toes. something very, very nice.

Zayn smells of turpentine, coffee grinds, and the metallic tang of canned seafood. Niall thinks he might be in love.

-

everyone likes to joke that Zayn has cheekbones that could cut glass - this is not a very good joke, as it’s not all that funny, so much as it’s more or less possibly true. sometimes when they kiss, Niall will come away a bit bloody, thin little nicks all over his palms and his own cheeks, along his jaw and down his throat. they’re good cheekbones.

Zayn has a lot of good everything, if we’re being thorough;

strong shoulders and a thin waist and soft hands that always seem to know the right way to hold him, know just the right amount of pressure Niall likes and when best to apply it. they’ve only been together for a short time, but Zayn already knows just how to work him over.

over everything else, though, Niall does have a favorite.

Zayn’s eyes are usually a light brown. still beautiful, but just brown - except for in direct light, when they reflect molten gold. they’re _beautiful_.

when they fuck, Niall sometimes likes to turn off all the lights. there’s a streetlamp just outside the window above his mattress, and it provides just the right amount of clarity, just the right amount to slice across Zayn’s face if he’s riding Niall in bed. in the dark his eyes flash with tapetum lucidum and when Zayn comes, he lets out a guttural howl.

it is, quite possibly, the sexiest thing Niall has ever experienced, and he always comes soon after, lays across Zayn’s chest and listens for the sounds of beating wings as the neighborhood crows all gather outside his bedroom window like the pervs they are.

-

in the end, Niall stops having to look at his friends in order to keep believing. because in the end, he only ever has to look so far as he can see Zayn. who tends to not stray too far, mostly.

and when he looks, Niall doesn’t find any extraordinary two-dimensional projections following him around, has never been forced to overcome periodic height-related annoyances in order to maintain regular physical intimacy with his partner; Zayn’s shadows always stay put, very obedient and well-behaved, and his body always stays just about the same size, give or take a few inches here or there during certain lunar cycles.

they’re a really rather normal couple, actually, with a really rather boring homelife (when compared to the wild adventures of Liam and his best girl, Dani) and really rather vanilla sexlife (when you try to forget the discomforting stories Liam’s told you about his wild adventures with his best girl, and actual automobile, Dani).

there’s is a quiet sort of love.

it’s cozy nights spent on Niall’s couch watching reruns of static snowstorms and white noise on whatever channel the television happens to switch to that evening, Zayn curled up snug as a pillbug under Niall’s arm, both of them burritoed warmly into the thick quilt that Niall’s nana had knit him after his first equinox, the tiger inked proudly around Zayn’s shoulder purring softly in counterpoint to the breathy snores that murmur past Zayn’s lips the second after he’s dropped off to sleep.

it’s ill-advised strolls through the Whispering Forest on burnt sienna afternoons, a picnic of old leftovers served with lukewarm wine and spread out beneath a canopy of chatty branches, Zayn leaning in close to Niall’s ear to translate every now and then, the tang of fermented grapes on Zayn’s breath when he says that the trees think Niall has beautiful eyes and a smell about him that hints at bones whose marrow would taste delicious paired with the exact vintage they’re drinking, lips stained blood red as Niall grins coyly up into the sun sneaking past shivering leaves.

it’s waking up at the crack of dawn to take a piss and finding your boyfriend sat up next to you in bed, dipping his fingers into his mug of coffee with a sharp hiss and slashing his hand across his opened sketchbook with a resigned sigh, greeting you with a hum that turns into a grunt when you ask what exactly he’s working on and he answers past a frustrated moue, “the slope of your nose, the jut of your brow, that goddamn dimple in your chin -- now stop smiling, you’re fucking me up.”

there’s is a quiet sort of love, and it’s all that Niall needs to keep believing.

 

\---

 

_listeners, i feel as if a clarification may be in order with regards to the updated Community Calendar for this week; it feels rather a lot like rumblies in my tummies, actually, like when i forget to eat every few hours and it makes me all sickly. though i know that can’t be it, since i’ve always made sure to set multiple alarms on my phone and have just had a Tupperware bowl full of leftover spaghetti bolognese from last night as my third midday meal. the noodles were gummy, but i ate them anyway, so the only thing i can blame for the flummox in my stomach is an unforgivable vagueness in my reporting._

_in any case: i’d like to ask that no one attempt to return tomorrow for a cash refund, as that is not what you will receive._

_**please**._

_what you will receive is tall and dishwater blonde and sneezes if you get too close. it does not like the way you smell and will use mature language in harsh tones to shame you for your particularly offensive stench every chance it gets. what you will receive is a very rude houseguest, indeed._

_**please do not attempt a cash refund return on tomorrow**._

_thank you._

 

\---

 

during one of his late night listens to Cecil’s shows, Niall learns something so utterly fascinating, that he actually makes a note to tell his friends the next he sees them.

he doesn’t have to wait long, thankfully, as the following day is their weekly Dinner and a Boardgame Night; Liam and Louis are switching out _Parcheesi’s Inferno_ for _Monopoly: the Celestial Edition_ , when Niall remembers the crumpled up post-it in his back pocket. Harry’s wiping down the table where one of his pieces had spontaneously started oozing in the last round of the previous game, the smell of sulfur still strong in the air as Liam carefully handles the moonstones and meteorite chunks out of their box, when Niall finally brings up his interesting new findings.

“so you guys know how i’ve been listening to all those old radio shows, right?”

Zayn chuckles, sounding fond despite his smirk. “hard not to, with how much you bring them up lately.”

“tell me about it,” Louis says, and even though he’s facing away from him, Niall can tell when he rolls his eyes. “especially that one with the pet scientist, lords.”

Niall's about to protest, but then Harry reaches over and pats Louis’ shoulder placatingly. when he speaks, he’s looking at Niall. “i think it’s romantic, actually.”

Louis pouts and Niall continues.

“yeah, well. that ‘little scientist’ did a lot for this town, i’ll have you know! like, he was the one who realized that our clocks aren’t real.”

“now just what exactly do you mean by _not real_ , eh Nialler?” Louis’ head snaps around to face him, neck swiveled to a high degree. “i’ll have you know, Harold and i’ve got _three_ clocks at home and they seem plenty real to me.”

“no no, listen,” Niall shakes his head. “apparently, they weren’t always just used as decorative wall and wrist ornaments.” at everyone’s confused face, Niall elaborates: “according to one of Cecil’s broadcasts, it seems as if there was once a time, right, when people actually used clocks to _tell the time_.”

“oh, wow.” Liam says, just as Harry giggles and Zayn mutters, “ _whoa_ , weird.”

“yeah,” Niall agrees, bouncing in his seat a bit, excited that his friends finally seem interested. “and did i tell you about the toasters?”

Louis' sitting fully in Harry’s lap by now, facing Niall and pointing a finger at him threateningly. “i refuse to believe toasters were used for anything besides providing timed, portable heat. i won’t let you take that from me, Niall Horan.”

“but listen, okay. so like, toasters, right?” Louis growls low in his throat and Harry pets his hair soothingly while Niall talks. “toasters, as i’m lead to believe, used to make _toast_.”

a few seconds of silence as Zayn finishes helping Liam set up the Monopoly board and then Harry asks, “okay, so what’s toast?”

“oh, shit, right. sorry,” Niall feels silly, calms when Zayn drops down to sit next to him on the floor in front of the couch. “i forget that i only just found this out myself.”

Liam's taken his seat by now, as well, on the other side of the coffee table, is half-heartedly squabbling with Louis over who would be the one to get to use the Mars game piece. Louis’ complaining about how he always ends up being a dwarf planet, hissing out a pointed _not today, Payne_ while Harry continues absent-mindedly spinning his Venus piece like a top. Zayn nudges Niall in the side to get back his attention, hands him Uranus with a smirk on his face -- Niall is in love with a giant dork.

"anyway,” he says, coughing to clear his throat. “i guess toast was like.. i’m still a bit fuzzy on the details myself, but i guess loaves of bread used to be sliced up and sold in grocery stores? and then these slices, when they were placed in toasters, would cook and get all like, brown. and crunchy. this is what they called ‘toast’ - at least, according to the books i found in the library.”

Zayn gives him a knowing look and Niall admits, “yeah, fine, so maybe i also borrowed the books from the secret vaults and then snuck them out of the library while Liam kept the librarians occupied --” _you’re welcome, by the way,_ Liam mutters, rubbing at a bit of bruising along his jaw, mostly hidden by his impressive scruff. “-- and brought them home, where they’re now hidden in the crawl space under my back porch, heh.”

“that seems pretty risky, babe.” Zayn looks almost proud.

“but worth it!” Niall assures them. “just last night i read that people used to accompany this toast stuff with a smear of like, butter or margarine. and sometimes different kinds of jam.”

Louis looks vaguely disgusted, “and why the fuck would they do that?”

"well, that’s the weird part,” Niall tells him, still a bit shocked himself. “because around the same time when everyone was going around using clocks for time-keeping, they also used to _eat_ wheat and wheat by-products.”

“fuck,” Zayn exclaims, lets out a puff of air while his delicate fingers fumble his Mercury piece around his thumb with the pair of cosmic dice.

Harry and Liam, meanwhile, are looking sick to their stomachs. Louis is still disgusted, but mostly outraged.

“the hell? aren’t wheat and wheat by-products the shit bombs are made of? why would anyone willingly eat the shit bombs are made of?”

“don’t look at me,” Niall shrugs, hands raised in front of himself and palms open wide toward Louis. “i was just as weirded out as you. like. during the time Cecil was still hosting the show, the City Council made wheat and wheat by-products illegal for dietary consumption --” _thank goodness,_ Harry whispers. “-- and then it wasn’t until a few years later that - well, Carlos, actually - realized wheat and wheat by-products could be used as a much more efficient and better-smelling alternative to whatever they’d been putting in their explosives previously.”

"well damn,” Louis finally says, “i guess the Council made a good call on that one.. and good on your scientist, too.”

"Cecil’s scientist, not mine,” Niall reminds him. he looks sideways at Zayn, who’s already looking back at him, secretly soppy smile on his face. “but yeah.. yeah.”

\---

_before i sign off for the evening, i’ve been asked to inform everyone listening that our magnanimous mayor, Hiram McDaniel’s Thrice Severed Left-Posterior-Head, has just now released another statement. this emergency follow-up is a retraction of their first statement, the one i reported on earlier in this very broadcast, regarding blood donations._

_this new statement flew into my studio written in a shaky hand along the underwings of an origami pterodactyl, and it reads as follows: **give blood. doesn't matter where you got the blood or who you give it to. just give blood.**_

_which explains why my boyfriend is currently standing in the doorway holding a bag of takeaway in one hand and a giant catheter in the other. and mmm, delicious -- it smells like a curry._

_wey-hey, Night Vale. **wey-hey**._

\---

**Author's Note:**

> dedicating this one as a belated birthday surprise to the darling, Lindsay. bless you for caring about this silly little thing; you rawk! never change!! see you next summer!!!
> 
> (also, hey. everyone go follow my [tumblr](http://dialethetic.tumblr.com/). okay. cool, thanks.)


End file.
